Smile Because It Happened
by Zelda148
Summary: John's deep in depression after Sherlock's death and is unwilling to accept help.


_This isn't a prequel to 'The Rules are Wrong' but parts in that may make more sense if you read this one as well, it's not necessary though. :)_

* * *

I roll over picking up the phone beside me.

Three texts and four missed calls. I roll over again, pulling the covers back over my head, immersing myself in the smell of cigarettes and coffee.

The phone rings, the tinny sound indicating the battery is low. Groping behind me I knock the phone off the bed.

"Shit." I crawl to the edge of the mattress leaning over to pick up the mobile. I scoop it up off the floor, catching the answer button with my thumb as I do so. "Oh, shit."

"Hello." A gentle voice echoes from the speakers.

"What?"

"No need to sound so... irate."

"What do you want?" I soften my tone slightly, understanding that it's not her fault.

"I'm just telling you I'm coming round."

"No!" I shoot up in bed, covers piled around my legs. Scanning the room I see single socks lying everywhere, olds plates and cups scattered around the room and the laptop sat open dangerously near the foot of the bed.

"Well, I'm already on Baker Street."

"You can't." I struggle to hide the panic in my voice. ""I'm fine."

"Well, like I said, I'm almost here." She's bored of fighting me. "And we all know you're not fine."

Clambering out of the bed I find a pair of jeans and pull them on quickly, while glancing round for a shirt. I pick one up and throw it on, shoving the door closed behind me.

The destruction that meets me is astounding.

Shattered glass decorates the floor, the bases of beakers and the rims of test-tubes the only bits still recognisable. There are torn shirts, strips of cloth and broken buttons everywhere.

I grab a brush and attempt to tidy, creating a pile in the corner of the room. I can hear the door down stairs, the latch sticking as she pushes it open.

I throw mugs into the sink, wincing as one of the smashes against the metal.

Footsteps up the stairs.

Putting the kettle on I toss teabags in a pot and grabbing milk from the fridge. I twist the lid off and recoil from the smell.

"Oh god." The sound of her opening the door into the flat hurries me on. I pour the milk down the sink, the cloudy liquid cascading over the smashed china.

"John?" She peers round the corner and I turn to smile at her. "I thought you said you were okay?" Frowning she come over to me and places her hand on my forehead.

"I am fine. I swear."

"It's been three weeks John."

"And I'm fine Molly."

"You've lost weight."

"Yeah, and?" I shrug. "Loads of people lose weight after the death of a loved one." I barely manage not to choke on the words.

"You're wearing his shirt."

"No I'm not." Even as I speak I realise the sleeves of the shirt reach my wrists, even turned up and it hangs well past my hips. "Oh."

"Go and have a shower, I'll clean up a bit in here, and then we'll go for coffee."

"It's..." I begin to say, 'it's fine' again but stop myself. I'm not kidding anyone. "Okay."

I walk into the bathroom, relishing the warm water on my skin and the steam filling the room. I let myself get lost in the sound of the water and the music floating in from the kitchen, Molly singing along tunefully. The smell of the soap sinks into my skin, reminding me of him but cleaning the melancholy of the last weeks off my skin.

Drying myself off I traipse to his room wrapped in a towel. Since the clothes I was wearing were ill-fitting and dirty I decide to change. I find some cleanish clothes that belong to me rather than him and throw them on.

"Ready?"

"Yeah." I emerge from the room, marvelling at the job she's done on the kitchen.

"I've emptied the fridge as well. We'll get some shopping in on the way back."

"Okay." I pause, wondering whether to voice my concerns. "Did you throw out, you know, his stuff?"

"No." She looks at me, her eyes pitying. "Let's go."

As we leave I pass the armchair, the deep purple scarf retrieved from St Bart's draped across the back of it; bloodstains still speckled on the middle. I wrap it around my neck, inhaling the warm scent and follow Molly down the stairs. Taking care to alert Mrs Hudson to my unexpected departure I call out.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm going for coffee with Molly."

"Oh good dear, you need to get out." She comes out from her kitchen meeting me in the hallway. Her clothes are the same: bright, patterned smocks but now they hang off her skeletal frame.

"Yes, you're right. Do you want anything from the shops?"

"Oh, some teabags please."

I smile at her and give her a hug before walking out the door for the first in more than three weeks.

"Where are we going then?" I put on a façade of cheeriness but I suspect she can see right through it.

"Ahh, that's a secret." She winks at me and we fool the passers-by with our act. Hopefully we may be able to convince ourselves: stop it being an act and make it real.

"Hmmm, not sure if I like surprises."

"I think you'll like this one. It's wonderful; I go here all the time."

"Really?"

She turns the corner ahead of me, leading me down a back-street. He heels click against the cobbles on the road which she wanders down the centre of with a quiet confidence.

"Yeah, I love it." She stops in front of a shop with an awning the colour of pine needles. Opening the door I am hit with the smell of burning coffee beans and baking pastries. The walls either side of me are lined with inset bookshelves, filled with beautiful books. We stand at the glass counter and my mouth begins to water at the sight of the warm pastries laid artistically on china plates.

"The usual Molly?" The young woman behind the counter speaks with a warm Welsh accent and her eyes crinkle in the corners: 'a sign of a natural smile'; I remember him saying it.

"Yes please, but times two." She chuckles under her breath, the exchange with the woman easy. It's a side of Molly I'm not used to seeing and I enjoy it. She's actually quite pretty when she's not trying so hard.

"I'll bring it over to you."

"Thank you Ceri."

We find a table between the window and the wall. The table is clean and smooth, the seats cushioned; sinking into them almost heavenly. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, so many of them with gold-leaf lettering and leather covers. Selecting one at random I open the book without checking the cover. _Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened._I flick to the front of the book; it's a book of quotes.

Ceri places plates with maple and pecan pastries on the table with childish hot chocolates piled high with whipped cream and marshmallows.

I read it again.

_Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened._

I look at Molly, her eyes glazed over, her mind in some distant dream-land and whisper to her.

"We're going to be okay. Aren't we?"

* * *

_Thank you for reading, reveiws are welcome._


End file.
